


Bound

by fhsa_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-19
Updated: 2005-07-19
Packaged: 2019-02-05 19:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12800445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: Alex is bound





	1. part 1Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

You'll probably be surprised to hear this, but I do actually know where I'm bound. Or, more precisely, to whom I'm bound. 

 

The question is, "Why?"

 

In case you haven't already figured it out? I'm not a huge fan of introspection.

 

It's not like he even knows I'm alive--and I mean that literally. He actually thinks that I'm dead. That Skinner killed me.

 

Not a chance.

 

C'mon, folks. After all I've survived over the years, after I've cheated death again and again, the very idea of Walter Skinner being the bearer of my destruction is, in a word, laughable.

 

Mulder should know better. 'I want to believe', my cute Russian ass.

 

You may be wondering what brought this on. Maybe not. Either way, I'm going to tell you. A crossword puzzle. "Held, as by affection"; seventeen across, five letters, starts with B, ends with D. 

 

You got it. Bound.

 

I'm bound to him by many things. Belief, respect, desire, need... anger. Lots of anger - on both sides. One might even say 'inextricably bound'.

 

And suddenly, after two years of letting him think I'm actually dead, this fucking crossword puzzle clue gives me the overwhelming urge to go see him. To talk to him. Explain why I did what I did. To him, for him, with him.

 

Imagine that. Me, explaining. Hear that sound? That's Hell freezing over.

 

Imagine also, if you will, Mulder finally coming to his senses, realizing that he and Scully don't belong together, and leaving her sorry ass. Then imagine me coming across that puzzle clue, being bound to him...

 

Yeah. You get the general idea. 

 

How do I know he left her? Because I still watch.

 

What can I say? Once an obsessive rat, always an obsessive rat. 

 

So here I sit, staring at the door to his room. Wondering if I really want to do this. And... fuck all! Here he comes. He's marching across the motel parking lot, heading with unerring accuracy right in my direction. 

 

Okay, Alex. Decision made. Loins girded. Ready to wade into battle once more.

 

I open the car door and climb out to greet him. "Hey, Mulder."

 

He stops. Stares at me with the oddest expression. Part disbelief, part mistrust, a complete *lack* of surprise, and a large dose of acceptance. Well, fuck me.

 

"Krycek," he says flatly. "What do you want?"

 

"To talk, Mulder. Wouldn't you agree that it's time?"

 

A shrug. "Only if you plan to tell me something resembling the truth."

 

My turn to shrug. "Probably."

 

"Then I agree; it is about time."

 

"Yeah." Hey, he's the eloquent one. I've always prided myself on being a man of few words.

 

After staring at me for a couple of beats, he nods once. "There's a good diner up the road, and I'm hungry. Gimme the keys and let's go eat."

 

My grin just slips out. Some things will never change. I hand over the keys and we climb into the car.

 

I'll have to get back to you on what happens next.

 

Provided I survive the next few hours.


	2. part 2 Bound For Glory

Fortunately for all concerned, Mulder listens without interrupting too many times while I try to make him understand. He sits quietly, sipping his coffee, and *listens* to my uncharacteristically disjointed ramblings about me, my life, that bastard Spender, the hold he'd had on me, my attempts to keep Mulder alive, relatively sane, and basically unharmed.

 

Finally, once I wind down, he sits back and frowns. Then - and this is pretty fucking scary - he grins. "You," he announces with entirely too much satisfaction, "are in love with me."

 

My response? Staring. That's all. Just staring. Won't mention the blushing or the mouth hanging open.

 

Yeah, I'm cool. Why do you ask?

 

He snickers - which makes me even more uncomfortable - and gets to his feet. "C'mon, Krycek. Let's go."

 

"Go?" Voice breaking? In your dreams. "Where?"

 

"Back to the motel, Alex."

 

Ah. Lightbulb. He's going to administer the ritual beating in private, to generously allow me to salvage what is left of my nonexistent dignity--because really, I have *so* much left by this point--by pummeling me in private.

 

Is it any wonder I love this guy? 

 

And, hey, what's up with this "Alex" thing? He hasn't called me that since-

Okay, let's not go there just now. First, let's deal with surviving, then we'll wallow in memories. Assuming we're *alive* to wallow. Oh well, I did say that anger was one of those things that bound me to Mulder.

 

Why is it that I'm always right?

 

Resigned to my fate, I indicate my agreement by docilely following him out to the car and accompanying him back to the motel hell.

 

He only speaks once during the drive. "I have to say, Alex, that I find myself really liking this newer, *quieter* you."

 

I resent that. Really, I do. I believe I mentioned the whole man-of-few-words thing I've always prided myself as being. And I'd tell him that, right fucking now, except... well, he's never hesitated to punch me in similar circumstances. If I wait and let the beating begin in slightly more open surroundings there is a slight - okay, miniscule - chance that I can avoid a concussion from my head impacting with windows, walls and/or floors.

Back at the motel and in his room, I watch dumbfounded as he kicks off his sneakers, pulls off his sweatshirt and collapses onto his bed. Where the bastard snaps the button on his jeans open and lies back against the pillows. He stretches mightily, yawns, raises his arms, and cradles his head on clasped hands.

 

Then he directs a beatific smile at me.

 

And I? Do not run. With all the aplomb of a sixteen-year-old virgin I stop at the door and watch his performance. Instead of running for my life like I should.

 

"Alex," he purrs, "come over here and join me."

 

"Um." Well, at least my voice didn't break this time.

 

"Whassamatter, Alex?"

 

The matter? What's the fucking matter?

 

Let's take a moment to review, shall we? 1) I track his ass down. Tacitly admitting that I've been watching him. 2) I give him my keys and let him drive my car. Thereby placing my life in his hands. 3) I explain myself, my motives to him. 4) I blush. 5) I stutter. 6) I... dammit! I make a goddamned fool of myself.

 

And Mulder? Definitely doesn't give me any breaks. Nope. He smirks. He teases. He announces that I'm in love with him. Smugly.

 

Not that he was wrong, mind you. But he could have at least kept this particular revelation to himself.

 

Which is moot now. I don't love him after all. I hate him. Fox Mulder is a devil from hell and he. Must. Die.

 

Jaw clenched, grinding my teeth in frustrated fury, I glare at the self-satisfied bastard.

 

"Oh for God's sake! Get over yourself already."

 

That tears it. I'm gonna kill him. Here and now, I am going to *kill* him.

 

I tell him so. Very explicitly and in great detail, I tell him exactly how I plan to pull out my Glock and blow him into oblivion.

 

He sighs. Drops the smirk and sits up, meeting my glare with a sober expression in his hazel eyes. "Listen... I... Dammit, Krycek, I feel the same way."

 

Huh? Feels what way? He feels an overwhelming desire to kill me too? Or. He... he... 

 

"I love you too."

 

Well. With that being the case, I shed my jacket, shirt, shoes, and join him on the bed, where we--

 

*You* have a nasty, dirty disgusting mind. I like that in a person. But no. We talk. *Just* talk. For hours, we lie there, side by side, just talking.

 

About what, you ask?

 

That, my friend, is private. So, by the way, are the following events.

 

I'm sure, given that filthy mind of yours, that you'll have no problem imagining what happens next. 

 

I will, however, say that we're glorious together. Pretty too.

 

Maybe, just maybe, I'll go into lurid detail when I write my memoirs. Which won't happen for many, many years. Live with it.

 

"Always leave 'em wanting more," said... someone famous.

 

Words to live by, wouldn't you agree?


End file.
